Dearest Bartlett,
The first day I met you, I was just a scared Freshman clutching onto my lanyard. I remember getting lost in your halls for fifteen minutes and stumbling into class late, red-faced and embarrassed. I remember seeing how dilapidated you were, your entrance shrouded in a haze of English majors’ cigarette smoke. I thought to myself, is this really what I’m paying thousands of dollars for?
Little did I know that I would fall in love with you. With all your flaws and serious ant infestation issue. With your asbestos and even with Barlett 65.
You’ve been condemned for some time, and I feel like our time together is too short. I was just another English major sheltered in your crumbling walls. You made me feel safe even when I was surrounded by seas of people telling me to “get a real major” and “have fun with unemployment.”
I’m with you most of the day, sweating profusely even when it’s 60 degrees outside. My thighs stick to your wobbly chairs as your tiny, inadequate windows let in a meager breeze. I don’t know how you’re so hot, but it’s just one of those things I’ve come to accept.
The fact that one day I’ll come to campus and you won’t be there breaks my heart. I won’t be able to sit in the grass in front of your doors and read Toni Morrison in my faux-hipster apparel. I won’t be able to drink from your sketchy water fountains, or be mystified by those strange toilet things in the girl’s bathroom. What even are those?
In short, I love you. I love all that your are and all that you ever were. Even though you are debatably one of the most hideous buildings I’ve ever been in. I wonder what you hide behind those tarps draped against your walls. I wonder what’s in that dark closet in the basement that looks like the scene of a horror film.
You are truly one of a kind, Bartlett.
Love,
Katie